As the seasons passed, the red and yellow plastic flowers on the porch and in the yard around the house began to fade, but only slightly. The residents of the house had not faired quite so well. Too many cold nights had cut them off from the rest of the world, and too many glaring days had rendered them nearly invisible. From my vantage point next door, however, the blossoms could still be seen.
A few of the residents had developmental disabilities, but a number of others had previously led lives that most people would call “normal.” There were veterans from two wars, for instance, and a former police officer. I was always curious about that. What had happened to them? What life-altering event had sent them into mental illness? Or maybe it didn't happen like that at all. I didn't know.
I had a chance to find out one day when I decided to walk to the grocery store.
The residents next door were constantly making trips to the store for cigarettes, beer or a cup of free coffee. Today, Beryl was marching out of the house next door as I headed down my front porch steps. She was dressed, as always, in a very sporty outfit, a definite New England look: cargo shorts, deck shoes, a horizontal-striped top, short cotton jacket and a lavender baseball cap. She turned in the direction of the store. I waited a few seconds, and fell in step beside her.
When Beryl was on a mission to the store, she would walk her deliberate walk and stare at the ground in front of her. Unless someone spoke to her, she would pass right by without ever looking up. It was different if she was trying to scrape up some change for a pack of cigarettes. She was like a heat-seeking missile at those times, but either way, I always spoke to her. Normally, I would get nothing more than an overly-loud “hello!” Sometimes she would add “how you doing?” Today, amazingly, Beryl was in the mood to talk.
It was her son’s birthday. He was twelve years old.
“Where is he?” I asked.
“He lives with his father,” she replied, “in Sao Paulo, Brazil.”
“Really?” I asked, and almost immediately regretted my word choice. I hadn’t even considered that she wasn’t telling the truth; I was just surprised.
“Yup,” she said unfazed, “I used to live in Brazil.”
"Wow." I was genuinely impressed. “How did you end up in Brazil?”
Of course, I really wanted to know how she ended up that house next door.
Beryl, focused on the sidewalk, twirled a strand of hair and told me how she’d met a young doctor, a brain surgeon, back in her home state of Vermont. She gave few details, but went on matter-of-factly, in a voice slightly too loud. Her young doctor was Brazilian. They married, and she moved to Sao Paulo where they had a son.
“But then I got messed up…and they sent me here.”
I had been extremely curious about Beryl, her housemates and how they had gone from relatively normal lives to a group home, but at that moment, for some reason, getting “messed up” was all the explanation I needed.
“How long have you been here?”
“Um…eight years,” she answered, looking in the other direction.
“Do you stay in touch with your son?”
We walked through the electric door into the supermarket.
“I talked to him on the phone…uh…about five years ago,” she said, distracted, “but they send me pictures and stuff,” and then, wanting to get on with her mission, she ended with a loud “Bye,” and headed down the aisle.
I watched her walk away, and thought of Bertha Mason.
She was Rochester’s crazy wife in Jane Eyre. They didn’t send her away, but locked her in the attic instead. That didn’t work out too well for Rochester. Bertha burned down the house and Rochester lost his arm and went blind in one eye. It was worse for Bertha. She jumped to her death from the burning rafters of Thornfield Hall.
Beryl, on the other hand, had been sent away, but now had a new family with middle-aged kids who needed her. She was looking sporty, and was on a mission. I nearly smiled.
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